


For Darkness, Light

by savanti



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, In Hushed Whispers, M/M, Varric as a framing device
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-06-25 05:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19739068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savanti/pseuds/savanti
Summary: "There was just one problem: the amulet didn't work."When escaping Alexius' dark future proves to be more complicated than they ever expected, Lavellan and Dorian find themselves indefinitely stuck in the wrong timeline.  Now, if they want to survive, they'll have to band together, gather what allies they can, and just maybe bring a bit of hope back to a world that never should have been.





	1. Prologue

Haven wasn’t made for this kind of party.

Really, Haven wasn’t made for _any_ kind of party. The modest little village had started life as the hallowed ground of cultists, found itself none-too-gently taken over by Chantry scavengers, and ultimately ended up being repurposed into the Inquisition’s makeshift base of operations out of a sad mix of convenience and desperation. Not a single aspect of the place had been built with fun in mind, but if tonight proved anything, it was that poor design choice wasn’t going to stop the Inquisition from having one last hurrah before moving on. The Singing Maiden could hardly hold all the merrymakers, and the rowdier patrons had long since spilled out into the street, laughing and dancing and generally being far too drunk to care about how cold it was. Supposedly, the idea was that the more they drank the less there’d be to carry in the upcoming evacuation. Judging by the size of the casks those new Fereldan boys had brought in, though, Haven wasn’t in any danger of premature sobriety.

By Varric’s estimation, it was working out well enough—all the excitement outside meant the tavern proper was a slightly less chaotic affair than usual, with most of the crowd being made up of Inquisition troops who were busy swapping rumors and placing bets on the organization’s next moves. Varric occupied his usual spot near the bar, where Flissa surreptitiously supplied him with the top-shelf ale she was all too happy to let the others think she was out of. (Keeping the place so frequently entertained had its perks, after all.) Bull and his Chargers were camped out in one corner, while Adan and Dennett were engaged in a heated debate with Seggrit in another. Even some of the higher-ups were making a rare appearance tonight, albeit for reasons that weren’t quite so indulgent. Josephine was engrossed in scribbling away on her clipboard, pacing the tavern and taking note of any inventory worth keeping. Cassandra and Cullen, meanwhile, had stopped by to hassle a few guards who’d gotten too caught up in drinking to remember it was time for a shift rotation. Being _near_ a party was about as close to drunken revelry as those three were going to get, so as far as Varric was concerned, it counted as participating.

The latter two in particular, he knew, were less than thrilled about seeing their people get carried away so preemptively. Varric couldn’t blame them, exactly; a victory celebration in advance of the victory was the very definition of tempting fate. Still, it wasn’t like the Inquisition didn’t have a good reason to be happy. In returning from Redcliffe, the Herald of Andraste had pulled off the impossible once again, accomplishing what some thought to be his most impressive feat yet. To hear the way some of the men talked, you’d think the events back at the castle had proven Lavellan was outright unkillable. Magister Alexius had wiped the Herald and his new companion out in an instant, they’d said, only for the two of them to reappear almost just as quickly.

According to Lavellan, what felt like seconds to spectators had actually been _months_ ; months he’d later claim had been spent in some twisted version of Thedas’ future. Crazy as it sounded, it was a hard position to argue with. Lavellan and Dorian had looked undeniably different upon return from their magical exile, and if knowledge counted for anything, they hadn’t come back empty-handed. In that regard, it was almost impossible to imagine Alexius’ efforts backfiring on the Venatori in a more spectacular way—not only had the spell he’d used failed to kill anyone, but the attempt had provided the Inquisition with both their enemy’s name and the groundwork for a plan that would, with any luck, ultimately undermine his every move. 

Not that everyone bought into what Lavellan had to say, of course. And it certainly… complicated matters for the holy hero of the people to suddenly be starry-eyed for a mage from _Tevinter_ , of all places. Still, the scouts who’d accompanied him to Redcliffe happily vouched for the Herald’s version of events, and their word in turn served to persuade others. The grisly trophy that followed the mages home had even convinced King Alistair, a man who knew a thing or two about darkspawn (ancient and otherwise), to throw the full support of his kingdom behind the Inquisition on the spot. People were a lot more reluctant to question the Herald with _that_ kind of alliance backing him up, however many secret doubts they still harbored.

Personally, Varric would have preferred to believe just about _anything_ to Corypheus being back, but he found himself taking Lavellan at his word all the same. There were simply too many times when the information brought back from the future had proven itself to be true, too many coincidences that failed to add up to anything else. A few people had, unsurprisingly, floated the idea of Dorian being a secret Venatori agent, but those arguments quickly fell apart under scrutiny. The truth was insane (even to someone who’d gone adventuring with _Hawke_ and lived to tell the tale), but nothing else even came close to explaining everything that spiraled out of Redcliffe.

First, there was the way Lavellan fought. Varric had seen the elf in battle enough times to realize his magical bag of tricks had grown substantially overnight, to say nothing of how he and Dorian were now able to coordinate attacks like they’d been working side-by-side for years. Then it just got _weird_ , like when that kid in the floppy hat showed up at Haven’s gates, mumbling a bunch of cryptic nonsense about wanting to “help”. Lavellan and Dorian had simply exchanged a look and welcomed him aboard, as if this completely bizarre turn of events was something they’d expected all along. (Predictably, this response received no shortage of opposition from the rest of the Inquisition. How _that_ would all turn out was still very much up in the air.)

But that was the obvious stuff, impossible to miss. The kind of thing a convincing enough liar could fake, if they were good and determined to. No, it was the more subtle details that _really_ convinced Varric. The truth was in how guarded and on edge the two men still looked, even after days of relative safety. It was in the strange new ways they interacted with the others: the guilty stares Lavellan shot at Cassandra when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, the moments Dorian failed to catch himself addressing Josephine by the wrong title, how neither of them seemed quite sure what to make of the Iron Bull. _Something_ had clearly happened to change their Herald and his relationships so much in the span of a single afternoon. The crazy time travel story was as good an explanation as any.

“Is it true, Ser Tethras?” asked a man to Varric’s right, the words out of his mouth even before his drink hit the table. “About what that mage said to the king? And—”

Varric held up his hands. He didn’t need to hear the rest to know where this was going. It was easily the tenth or so such question he’d fielded already, and the night had barely started. “You know, you _could_ try asking the people who were actually there.”

“Scout Pike said you were tellin’ it last night,” the man scoffed. “And it’s not like the Herald’s gonna show up and drink with us.”

That part was true enough. For a party ostensibly in their honor, the men of the hour had yet to make a proper appearance. Considering everything those two had been through, though, it was no surprise they still had some stuff to work out privately. Varric didn’t begrudge them for laying low— _much_ , anyway. The problem was that their absence meant any questions about their adventures inevitably ended up falling at the feet of the Inquisition’s resident storyteller. That was the burden of greatness for you.

“Forget all that,” another soldier cut in, nearly knocking over a whole row of mugs as he swung his arm out in a broad gesture. “I heard there was a _dragon._ ”

“You mean the bloody archdemon? Everyone knows about that!”

“Not _just_ the archdemon,” a woman this time, her voice an awed whisper. “I heard Andraste herself took the form of a dragon. Came down to save the Herald in person, she did.”

Cassandra looked up sharply then, like she’d developed the ability to detect blasphemy even from across the room. She shot Varric a glare like this was all personally his fault, and he abruptly decided that maybe he’d tell the story again after all. Pure, contrarian spite was always such a good motivator.

“I know I’d love to hear what really happened, Varric.” Flissa’s request came with the one-two bribery punch of topping off his glass and flashing a warm smile. “I tried to listen in before, but it’s so hard to keep up with anything, the way this lot carries on.”

“Okay, okay." Never let it be said Varric Tethras was immune to the powers of persuasion. "I guess if I’m ever gonna write this one, I _could_ use a little more practice putting it into words.” It was a lie, of course—time travel books were so inherently convoluted that only hacks even bothered to try. Still, as far as tavern tales went, it didn’t make for a half-bad one. Once you got past the wild premise, all the markings of a classic were there: betrayal, despair, heroic sacrifices, and love, somehow, _impossibly_ , rising to conquer all. Too bad no one outside of their crazy little band of fanatics would ever believe a word of it.

Neither Dorian nor Lavellan were there give him the okay to recount their exploits, but he was sure he had at least the latter's blessing. Lavellan had made a point to come to Varric shortly after getting back to the village, seeking a writer’s perspective to try and make sense out of everything that happened. He needed Haven’s people to take him seriously—for their own safety if nothing else—but his jumbled descriptions would be a hard sell, even to an army of the faithful. Lavellan had been patient about being taken at his word for the most part, but insisting that everyone get out of Haven as soon as possible was the one thing he refused to budge on, and with good reason. If Corypheus took a cue from his future self and marched on them here, the entire Inquisition would be pinned against the mountainside and slaughtered before they could even think of mustering a defense. 

Maybe it was that feeling of responsibility that really got to Varric, the residual guilt that gnawed at him from knowing it was Corypheus—someone he and Hawke had apparently failed to kill—at the source of all this suffering. In a sense this whole thing was partially his mess to clean up, and he felt more obligated than ever to help in any way he could. If the most useful role he could play was using his experience with spinning ridiculous events into something the masses could follow, well… he could think of worse fates than divinely appointed bullshit artist. 

Maker knows the matter certainly couldn’t be left up to Cassandra or the advisors alone—if that group had a fatal flaw, it was being hopelessly tied to their own points of view. The four of them had questioned Lavellan and Dorian over and over in the days following their return from Redcliffe, dissecting every pointless detail like the secret to taking down Corypheus was going to be hidden in what someone had for lunch. And sure, maybe information like that was helpful for motivating the grizzled veterans who didn’t care to be told much beyond where to point their swords, but the Inquisition was so much bigger than just career soldiers. Haven was full of pilgrims and refugees; ordinary, everyday people who were throwing their lot in with the fledgling organization just to try and stay alive. They believed in the Herald well enough, but abandoning their homes on his word alone? That was a lot to ask, even for Andraste’s chosen savior. Field reports couldn’t inspire anyone to follow a crazy plan like that—what these people needed was a _legend._

“Where did we leave off last time?” he asked, mostly just to gauge how attentive his audience was going to be. He’d barely scratched the surface of the story the previous evening, before most of the room had been so intoxicated that continuing on was pointless. The men who’d been at Redcliffe in person had been more than happy to share what they’d witnessed, anyway, so the whole village was well-acquainted with how things began. The castle, Alexius’ desperate gambit, Dorian’s timely interference… the most devoted among the Inquisition could already recite those parts from memory on their own.

“I believe,” Josephine began, causing more than a few heads to turn her way in surprise, “you’d just described the battle against Magister Alexius.” Several of the soldiers continued to stare at their Ambassador’s unexpected interest, but Varric understood. She had more reasons than most to be invested in hearing the tale told right.

“ _So_ ,” Varric nodded his thanks and leaned back in his chair. “The two mages managed to free Sera, Nightingale, and the Seeker, and together, they made their way to Alexius’ inner sanctum. Taking on the magister who started it all wasn’t easy, but they had no choice. You see, they had to find a way to get their hands on his amulet—the one thing that could send the Herald back home and end this whole nightmare for everyone. Getting to Alexius took everything they had—they fought their way through Venatori, demons, Fade rifts, freaky magic doors—but finally, it was over, and Dorian moved in to claim their prize. There was just one problem,” Varric paused for dramatic effect, lacing his fingers together and taking a moment to be sure the crowd was hanging onto his every word. “The amulet didn’t work…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a [really old prompt](https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/86302.html?thread=347250718), and a desire to write a DA:O style "two people vs. the world" story with DA:I characters. In proper DA fashion, this fic is divided into more or less location-based missions, subsequently broken up into chapters and interspersed with present day interludes. Characters from older games who appear in DA:I will have comparable cameos here, so references to FHawke/Fenris and Alistair/Unspecified FWarden will show up as background world state pairings. No major character death warnings because everyone in the main timeline is safe, but consider all the dark future counterparts to be perpetually on the chopping block.
> 
> Next up: Part One, _Where Hearts Once Beat_. From the Fereldan countryside to the Deep Roads, a not-so-great-escape puts our heroes on the path to discovering what remains of the Inquisition... and to a decision that will shape everything about the journey to come.


	2. Part One: Where Hearts Once Beat

Call it denial or wishful thinking, but Lavellan wasn’t terribly alarmed when Dorian plucked the weakly flickering amulet from Alexius’ corpse. Charms needing a magical recharge every now and then wasn’t unheard of, really, and the idea that they’d come this far only to fail was too ludicrous to entertain. Panic began to creep in as energy flared in Dorian’s palm and the amulet sat there, unmoved, but Lavellan pushed the feeling back. He held himself together even as Dorian broke into a stream of colorful Tevene curses, culminating in an almost heartbroken-sounding, “Alexius, what did you _do_?”

Then Dorian looked up at him, his expression unbearably apologetic, and Lavellan understood. It was over. All the fighting, all the effort, all the ways they’d scraped and clawed and struggled to get here, and they’d never actually had a chance.

“Stop standing there!” Sera took a step closer to them, throwing her arms out in frustration. “Fix that stupid thing and _go_!”

“The amulet was never meant to withstand everything Alexius put it through,” Dorian said as its light faded away, reducing it to nothing more than a gaudy trinket. “He spent an entire year trying to tear time apart at the seams.”

“Trying to undo his mistakes,” Leliana corrected bitterly. “He must have used the last of its power against the Herald.”

“Then…” Defeat hung heavily in Cassandra’s voice. “There is nothing we can do.”

Above them, something roared with the power to shake the foundations of the castle. The Elder One? His demon army? They were in no shape to take on either, so it hardly mattered. Alexius was going to get what he wanted in the end after all. They were all going to die right here in the throne room, just a year later than he’d intended. 

“So… that’s it?” Sera asked, her voice cracking. “It was all for nothing? The Elder One just—just _wins_?”

Something about her sounded small and far away—impossibly young in a way that snapped Lavellan right out of his brooding.

“He hasn’t won anything yet.” Lavellan stood up straighter, projecting as much confidence into his words as he could manage. He used the sort of tone he normally reserved for official First business with his clan; the kind that said everything was under control even when it very much wasn’t. “Dorian, you helped Alexius create the amulet in the first place. There must be a way to get it working again.”

“I—" Dorian looked at him, wide-eyed, as if Lavellan had just asked him to end all war with a snap of his fingers. “Even if we could, I doubt this Elder One is going to stand by and give us that kind of time!”

“Then it will have to be done elsewhere.” Leliana tightened her grip on her bow and fixed Lavellan with a piercing stare. “ _Everyone_ who saw the two of you in this castle—you killed them?”

They had, hadn’t they? Lavellan racked his brain for anyone who might have been able to slip away, and nodded when he came up empty.

“The Elder One is here for Alexius,” Cassandra said, voice blooming with understanding. “There is no reason for him to assume the Herald was involved. Escaping might still be possible.”

Dorian balked. “He might take notice when we go strolling out the front door!”

“Not the front door.” Leliana shook her head. “Even before you thinned their ranks, Alexius no longer had enough men to keep the lower levels under heavy guard. The passageway we used to get my agents into the castle still stands.”

“You saw that place, yeah?” Sera said. “Not much left down there to protect.”

The route hadn’t seemed important at the time, but Lavellan had taken note of it all the same. Its entrance had been blocked with heavy debris and the tunnel itself was probably every bit as flooded as the area that surrounded it, but neither of those problems were insurmountable for a couple of skilled mages.

“Then let’s go.” Lavellan moved for the door. “Dorian and I can clear the path, and then—”

“No,” Leliana cut him off. “The Elder One must find _something_ here if we want your presence to remain a secret. The three of us will cover your escape.”

To Lavellan’s horror, Cassandra and Sera exchanged solemn nods, holding their weapons at the ready. 

“What are you saying? That’s crazy!” 

“Look at us,” Cassandra said, red dancing across her eyes. “We would only hold you back.”

Lavellan did look at them— _really_ looked at them for the first time since he’d freed them from their cells. He barely understood anything about red lyrium, but Cassandra and Sera had apparently been exposed to enough of the stuff that it was growing out of them, casting a toxic glow around their bodies. And Leliana… who knows how long she’d been tortured on top of those insane experiments with the Blight. It was a miracle any of them were on their feet at all, much less still fighting. They’d found the strength and courage to help, but they had to be approaching their limit.

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Dorian said gently. “Some would say dying in battle is better than wasting away. Perhaps they’d even consider it a mercy.”

Logically, Lavellan knew Dorian wasn’t wrong. The horrors his friends had suffered under Alexius’ hands were beyond any normal mage’s ability to heal. Still, that didn’t mean he was going to give up on them without a fight. “You can’t seriously expect me to just leave you here!”

Lavellan turned to Cassandra, praying that at least she would see reason. Instead, she met his gaze evenly, showing the same steely resolve she’d had when she founded the Inquisition in the first place. “There is no time for discussion. May the Maker guide you where I could not.”

“You find that prick, and you _make him pay_.” Sera plucked an arrow from her quiver and thrust it into Lavellan’s hands. “From me. _Right in the arse.”_

“The only way we'll live—the only way _anyone_ will live, is if this day never comes.” Leliana locked eyes with him, burning the image of her ruined face into his memory. “ _That_ is how you can help us.”

“If we’re leaving,” Dorian said, tugging on Lavellan’s arm, “it has to be now!”

Lavellan wanted to protest; wanted to yell and scream and argue, to drag the others out by force if necessary, but… he couldn’t. He no longer had the luxury of being that selfish. He couldn’t allow himself to fall here, not when the mark on his hand was still needed. It was funny, almost, to think of how quickly he’d gone from expendable to too important to die. Back at the temple, he’d been treated like his life no longer mattered the moment he stepped out of the Fade. The mark was the world’s only hope of closing the Breach, and Cassandra had made it clear that any risk to him was insignificant in comparison. At the time Lavellan hadn’t been able to stop the swell of bitterness in his heart at the unfairness of it all, even if he’d known that it was what had to be done. Strange that here in this moment he would have traded almost anything to have that feeling back.

Noise thundered from somewhere outside, signaling that their time for debate was up. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from his companions and moved to leave with Dorian. Just minutes ago, things had felt almost optimistic. Every little victory on the way to the throne room had encouraged them, had pushed them that much further. And now? Now there was nothing but _back_ ; back out the door, back through the hall, back down the stairs. Nothing about this was right. Lavellan almost wished someone _would_ spot them; that they’d take a wrong turn right into the demon horde, and then he’d have an excuse to stay. 

For better or worse, that excuse never came. Lavellan and Dorian retraced their steps to the escape route with only minor incident—the one Venatori agent who had the misfortune of running into them was dead before he hit the ground, courtesy of Lavellan’s overzealous use of a lightning spell. (Considering the circumstances, Dorian graciously chose not to comment on the lack of subtlety.) Together, they then used their magic to push aside the various objects piled up in the doorway. The walls shuddered and creaked under their work, but miraculously, held strong. _Not entirely caved in_ was a far cry from _safe_ , of course, but at this point Lavellan would more than settle for usable _._

“Still standing,” said Dorian, relieved. “At least one thing’s gone right.”

Lavellan took a step forward, ready to get this over with, but Dorian held out an arm to stop him. “Wait. Flooded or not, Alexius was far too paranoid to leave the area entirely unprotected.”

Dorian started into the tunnel first, conjuring a small flame on the end of his staff to light the way. After a moment of searching, he stopped, pointing to just below the surface of the water where a glyph was lightly etched into the stone. “There. You see?”

Lavellan recognized some of the runes, but not their combination. “That’s… storm magic?”

“Partially.” Dorian hmmed. “Alexius is industrious with his deathtraps, I’ll give him that. Trigger the spell normally and be horribly impaled. Attempt to disarm it, and release a bolt of lightning directly into the water, gruesomely murdering you for your trouble.”

“Unless,” Lavellan guessed, watching as Dorian carefully dispelled the ward without regard for his own warning, “you’re someone who’s studied with Alexius enough to understand exactly how his magic works. Have I mentioned that I’m glad you’re here?”

Dorian smiled thinly over his shoulder. “Let’s actually make it to the other side before you start congratulating me, yes?”

All things considered, that was fair enough. Lavellan didn’t believe in chosen one nonsense or even fate, particularly, but it didn’t feel like a coincidence to have Dorian with him. Dorian was, quite literally, the only person in Thedas capable of getting them out of this building alive, much less back to the past.

As he waited for the remaining defenses to be deactivated, Lavellan looked down at Sera’s arrow, still clutched in his hand. He tore a strip of leather from his tattered armor, using it to tie the arrow to the end of his staff. He wouldn’t forget. Not any of this.

Resecuring his weapon on his back, he followed Dorian into the hall. The two of them had done their fair share of wading in the ruins of the dungeon, but the flooding in the route ahead seemed even more severe. And then there was the smell. The rotten, sour scent of death permeated the entire castle—no surprise considering Alexius’ penchant for decorating with piles of corpses—but here it somehow felt more concentrated. How many poor souls had gotten themselves killed trying to get in (or worse, _out_ ) this way? Lavellan tried not to think about it, but every so often he felt something misshapen crunch under his boots, and it spurred him to walk that much faster.

They were probably a little more than halfway to their destination when the walls began trembling in earnest, dust and rock spilling down so fast that it became hard to see. Whatever battle was raging upstairs, it must have been getting more serious. They took off in a run, blindly scrambling over wreckage and trying, with marginal success, to keep their feet from being swept out from under them. Behind them, part of the tunnel crumbled, sending a surge of water crashing over their heads. As Lavellan choked and struggled to stay upright, he thought about what a pathetic end for the fabled “Herald of Andraste” this would be. Infiltrate a mage stronghold, defeat a powerful magister, and narrowly evade the wrath of a demon army just to drown in a filthy pit. That had to top the list of most embarrassing ways he could die, surely. Stubborn refusal to go out in such a manner spurred him on as much as anything else.

At last, they came to the end of the tunnel. The water had doused Dorian’s makeshift torch, so after a few seconds of consideration, Lavellan held up his left hand. The mark sparked with power, providing just enough light for them to make out the escape hatch overhead. 

Of course the damn thing wouldn't open.

It was obvious that they couldn’t turn back. Between the rising water and the collapsing walls, there was nowhere to go but _up._ Dorian and Lavellan shared a look—they didn’t need words to know what needed to be done. They dredged up every last ounce of their mana reserves, focusing their power on whatever was blocking their escape. At first, their efforts seemed to do nothing. They could hear debris shifting and rolling around above them, but the trapdoor refused to budge.

In the end it was the wood of the hatch itself that finally gave out. The planks snapped, sending all the rubble that had piled on top of them crashing into the water. Lavellan couldn’t do much more than cover his head against the barrage of stone scraping across his arms and back, tearing into his already hopelessly damaged armor. Light blessedly flooded into the chamber once it was over, and he and Dorian wasted no time in scrambling for it. They hauled themselves out into the ruins of a windmill, coughing up disgusting water and trying desperately to catch their breath.

“All right,” Dorian managed, panting. “You have my express permission to start praising me now.”

Lavellan laughed, pushing himself up with shaking limbs. He might have complied with that request (or at least said a proper thank you), had his newfound view of the castle not immediately ripped away any sense of accomplishment. 

There, perched atop the towers, was what could generously be described as _almost_ a high dragon. The shape and size were right—if the way the creatures were depicted in illustrations was anything to go by, anyway—but the finer points of its features were all distinctly _off_. Strange bumps and ridges jutted out haphazardly across the beast’s body, making it appear almost skeletal, and its wings were so tattered that Lavellan had to wonder how they even functioned. Most distressingly, there was the hint of something red and rolling and _wrong_ pulsing under the dragon’s scales, casting an angry, otherworldly glow over its shadow.

“Is that—?”

“An _archdemon_?” It was almost impressive that Dorian could still sound so horrified, after everything. “ _That’s_ the Elder One Alexius serves?”

Lavellan had no answers. He could only watch, transfixed, as the dragon brought destruction down upon the castle. It felt traitorous, but he found himself hoping Cassandra and the others were already dead. At least that way it would have been quick. There was no mercy in the dragon’s attack. Its talons ripped through the stone as if it were paper, spewing fire that burned just a little too bright; unnatural, even for magic. If anyone still lived within those walls… well, they wouldn’t for much longer. 

A thought occurred to him, then: what if the creature could sense his presence? The mark, the Elder One, the Venatori—they were all connected, even if Lavellan didn’t yet have all the pieces. If the dragon came after them, they’d never outrun it; getting free of the castle would have been entirely pointless. Lavellan did his best to push the worry aside; they’d definitely be killed if he waited around overthinking it. Their only chance was to keep moving. He reached out to Dorian, who still looked stricken, taking his arm to help him to his feet. There’d be plenty of time to mourn how far Alexius had fallen later. “Come on. We need to put as much distance between us and that thing as possible.”

For whatever good that would do.

* * *

If either of them still held out any hope that the outside world would look better than the utter mess they’d witnessed in the courtyard, it was dashed as soon as they started walking. Lavellan would have never thought of the air itself as being able to get _sick_ , but there was no other word for the haze of green that wafted around them. It was as if someone had reached up and stabbed right into the heart of the Fade, and now its power was slowly bleeding out to devour Thedas. The Veil wasn’t gone so much as threadbare; leaving two incompatible worlds to push and pull at one another in a mutually poisonous coexistence. It was a wonder that even the Venatori could have survived here. Redcliffe Village, visible in the valley below them, hadn’t been so lucky. From the looks of things, it seemed to be long abandoned. What had once been one of Ferelden’s most bustling and resilient communities was now little more than a rotting, overgrown ruin.

Dorian sighed, but clearly the sight was too predictable to be disappointing. “I suppose we can rule out finding any help in Redcliffe.”

“I still don’t understand. How could things get so bad in only a year?”

“Is it really so surprising?” Dorian asked. “Unrestrained, there’s no limit to how much damage even a single demon can do. And this Elder One apparently has an entire army under his command.”

A demon army that, by now, had had plenty of time to spread out beyond Ferelden. Did all of Thedas look as horrific as this? Lavellan wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer, so he grit his teeth and kept walking.

“You know,” Dorian remarked, “it almost seems as if you know where you’re going.”

“I have some ideas, at least. The Inquisition spent a lot of time camping out here.” If there was one stroke of luck to be found in all this, it was that Lavellan was more than familiar with the area. The Inquisition had worked for weeks in the Hinterlands, aiding refugees and getting roped into what had seemed like one ridiculous task after another. It also didn't hurt that charting safe paths was something Lavellan had a lot of previous experience with. Being a First was about leadership as much as it was about magic, and helping the clan’s hunters scout new trails was an essential skill. Demons were less subtle about their tracks than bandits and wildlife, which by all accounts made them easier to hypothetically avoid.

Or maybe it _would_ have, had Lavellan been in peak condition. As it was he could barely muster the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Exhausting himself in battle was nothing new—he’d done it plenty of times, both for the sake of his clan and more recently with the Inquisition—but he didn’t think he’d ever felt as wiped out as this. He and Dorian had been alone for much of the fight, with nothing but their magic to protect them against swords and spells and all manner of demons. Cutting their way through the castle’s defenses to even _face_ Alexius had depleted most of their mana, and they hadn’t had so much as a moment’s rest since. Being soaked to the bone from their escape didn’t exactly help matters either, to say nothing of the merciless chill of the Fereldan wind.

Dorian must have been thinking the same thing, because after a while he said, “At this rate the cold will kill us before the Elder One gets his chance.”

“I don’t know. There used to be a lot of bears out here. They might find us first.” 

“That’s your idea of a silver lining, is it?”

Lavellan shrugged. “I’m an optimist.”

Eventually, Lavellan spotted what he’d been searching for—an intact cabin nestled in the hills. There were a few places like this scattered around the forest beyond Redcliffe, homes for hunters and farmers who lived outside the village proper. Most of them had been abandoned even before Alexius gained control, early victims of the mage/templar war. 

"There," he said. They could make a real plan later. Right now they just needed somewhere to warm up and get off their feet. 

“Of course,” Dorian said as they stepped inside. “The one place no one would ever think to look for us: a few miles down the road.”

“If we’re lucky, the Elder One will have no reason to suspect we’re even here."

“…And if we’re not, no amount of walking will get us out of his path. Truly, promising chances for us all around.”

Any useful supplies the cabin once held had been ransacked long ago, but it had four walls and (most of) a roof, so for the time being it was all Lavellan could ask for. He shut the door behind them and sank down to the dirt floor, leaning back against the wall. The dragon’s cries bellowed out in the distance, but it didn’t seem to be coming closer. 

“I… feel as though I owe you an apology,” Dorian began, taking a seat by the opposite wall. “When Felix and I reached out to the Inquisition, we thought we were doing the right thing. That Alexius and his time magic could be stopped before it was too late. I never expected…”

“It isn’t your fault, Dorian.” As off course as things had gone, it had still been the right call to go after Alexius—didn’t the existence of this awful future prove that? “You’re the only reason we even have a chance of fixing this.”

“You _are_ an optimist,” Dorian said with a hollow laugh, removing the amulet from his pocket and turning it over in his fingers. The pensive look he gave it spoke volumes about just how slim he believed that chance actually was. “When I first made the amulet with Alexius, we had every resource in Minrathous at our disposal. Back in Tevinter, repairing it would be a trifle. Here… I don’t know. It’s _possible,_ but given the state of things I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Lavellan recognized that look; Creators knew he’d worn it enough himself in the weeks since the Conclave. It was the look of a man who’d just had the fate of the world dropped on his shoulders. Lavellan had hated that feeling and now, practically no time later, he had no choice but to place that same burden on someone else. Perhaps they should start a club. He could hand out little cards that read: _Congratulations! Circumstances beyond your control have marked you as Thedas’ only chance of survival. No pressure, of course._

Lavellan couldn’t think of anything to say that would make that easier to bear, so he stuck with what he was good at: bravado and distraction. “Well, the alternative is dying in _Ferelden._ And who wants that?”

Dorian looked suitably disturbed by the proposition. “They’d probably feed our corpses to their mabari or something equally barbaric. I suppose we’ll have to survive a bit longer, then, just so we can lure the Venatori back to proper civilization.”

“If such a thing still exists.”

Lavellan wasn’t sure how long they sat there, tense and waiting for any sign of trouble. He knew there were many things he should force himself to get up and do: check their tracks, ward the area properly, have a real discussion about their next steps forward, at least take off some his wet armor before he froze to death. But the events of the day were catching up with him fast, and the last of his energy reserves were rapidly draining away. He leaned his back against the wall, listening as the dragon’s howls grew fainter and fainter, and drifted off.

* * *

It probably said a great deal about the week Lavellan was having that waking up to a knife at his throat qualified as more of a mild annoyance than a horrifying event. He found himself more or less jarred back into consciousness, startling awake as someone roughly hauled him to his feet and pinned him to the wall. Someone, that is, with a very familiar face.

“Josephine?!” he asked, or tried to. Speaking was a little difficult with her attempting to choke the life out of him.

Superficially, she didn’t look much like the ambassador he’d left behind. She’d traded her updo for a long braid, discarded her frills for dark leather. Three parallel scars ran down the side of her face, giving the impression she’d had a run-in with something that had particularly nasty claws. The biggest difference, though, was the harsh look in her eyes. She may not have worn her suffering as outwardly as Leliana, but it was plain to see that the last year had taken its toll on her just the same. Milling around behind her were a few Inquisition troops in patchwork armor. Lavellan recognized only one of them—Krem, of the Bull’s Chargers. He was holding Dorian at sword point across the room, keeping an eye on Josephine as if waiting for orders.

“Taking the form of the dead,” Josephine sneered, moving her dagger closer. “I had thought you demons were more clever.”

For once, Lavellan didn’t bother trying to talk his way out of trouble. He simply turned his left hand over—carefully, as to not provoke her into skewering him on the spot—and raised it so that they could all get a good look at the mark on his palm. It could do the explaining for him, and had the added advantage of being something a demon couldn’t fake. Predictably, it only took seconds for the soldiers to ooh and ah and start murmuring about Andraste. 

Josephine’s reaction was less extreme, but she slowly relaxed her hold on him, withdrawing her blade and taking a step back. “You! But… our men at Redcliffe all said you’d been killed!”

“Not killed,” Lavellan said. How had Dorian put it before? He’d explained it to Cassandra and Sera so easily. “We were sent ahead in time. To here.”

Speaking of Dorian… He gestured at Krem. “It’s all right. He’s with me.”

Josephine regarded Lavellan coolly, raising an eyebrow as if to say: _And?_

“No offense,” said Krem, “but the last time he was ‘with you’ you disappeared. For a year.”

To Dorian’s credit, he remained nonchalant about the disdain. “Have I mentioned that your friends get more charming every time I meet them?”

Lavellan resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “We’re all on the same side here. Dorian’s the only reason I’m even still alive.” 

Josephine studied him for a long moment, her eyes lingering on the mark, then nodded. “Let us hear what they have to say.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor.” Krem sheathed his blade, and Lavellan was fairly certain he felt his brain explode.

“ _Inquisitor_?” he repeated, so stunned he could barely get the word out. The Inquisition hadn’t even been _close_ to selecting a leader and now they were, what? Sending their chief diplomat out to fight demons? 

Josephine took in Lavellan’s shock, her mouth quirking with the barest hint of amusement.

“You’ve been gone a long time, My Lord. I'm afraid you'll find that much has changed in your absence.”


	3. Chapter 3

Technically, Dorian had met Josephine once before. After he’d helped the Inquisition plan their ill-fated assault on Redcliffe, she’d made a point to take him aside for a chat. Few things called for the ambassador’s personal attention like Tevinter nobility showing up on Haven’s doorstep, he supposed, and she’d been quick to offer her assurances that his brief stay would be a pleasant one. While the others had sneered and shot him distrustful looks, Josephine had been nothing less than polite. Calculatedly so. She had the kind of careful, skillfully cultivated graciousness that only the truly savvy could pull off. They’d sat and made cheery conversation about Tevinter bloodlines, and Dorian had never once doubted that Josephine’s smile concealed a threat as dangerous as any soldier’s blade. He knew her type well—she was the kind of woman who could size you up in thirty different ways all while handing you a glass of wine.

At the time, he’d honestly found the whole thing impressive. Watching her now, though, Dorian had the distinct suspicion that her favor was going to be considerably more difficult to win than that of her less fortunate comrades back at the castle. _My Lord_ , she’d said. Not _Herald_. Too important to be addressed plainly, but no one’s savior. That didn’t bode well. Lavellan was almost certainly not the Lord of anything, and people like Josephine never chose their words by accident.

“Well, uh,” Lavellan eventually managed. “Are congratulations in order?”

Josephine made a sharp sound that could have almost been considered a laugh. “You look so surprised. It’s not as if there was much competition for the title. We lost you and Seeker Cassandra in the same day, then Leliana and Cullen soon after.”

“With all due respect, Your Worship,” Krem said, moving to stand at Josephine’s side. From the way the other soldiers’ eyes followed him, Dorian could tell he must also carry some rank of importance. “You aren’t giving yourself enough credit.”

Dorian had taken note of Krem back in Haven too, of course—a fellow Tevinter in the organization would have been an impossible thing to miss. Not that anyone would be able to tell they were countrymen from the way the Inquisition treated them. Haven’s guards had looked at Dorian as if he were about to steal their souls from the moment he’d first approached the camp, but the mercenary, apparently, they’d welcomed with open arms. Perhaps if Dorian had carried a sword on his back instead of a staff, they would have put him in charge of something. Honestly, the south was nothing short of backwards sometimes.

“The Inquisitor’s been the only thing holding people together this past year,” Krem continued, addressing Lavellan more than Josephine. “No one else could’ve done the things she has.”

That raised a considerable amount of questions about what exactly had happened during that year, but Dorian opted to start with the most pressing. “She certainly has a good sense of timing. What’s the Inquisition doing all the way out here?”

“Our scouts saw the Elder One approaching the area,” Krem said. “If necessary, we were going to lead him away from our main camp.”

“He was here to finish off Alexius,” Lavellan explained. “We barely escaped him back at the castle.”

“The castle?” That got Josephine’s attention. “Then, did you see Leliana? Did any of Alexius’ prisoners still live?”

Only mentioning Leliana by name… Did that mean she thought the other two were long dead? If that’s what the Inquisition believed, it might be kinder to not correct them.

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan’s solemn voice was an answer in itself. “She gave her life to make sure we could get away.”

“Of course she did.” Josephine looked down, and briefly, the façade of the Inquisitor gave way to something softer. “There’ve been no signs of life beyond the Venatori and their demons in this area for months. When the Commander saw your muddy footprints, we had hoped…”

Josephine stopped herself there, and really, there was no need to elaborate. 

“Her sacrifice wasn’t entirely in vain.” Dorian seized on the opportunity to interject on the doom and gloom. “We have the amulet Alexius used to send us here. With it, we intend to go back and stop all of this from happening.”

“And yet,” Josephine said, all edges once more, “here you are, hiding in an abandoned shack.”

Lavellan shifted awkwardly. “The amulet doesn’t… work exactly, but we think it can be fixed.”

“You _think_?”

“You’ll have to excuse us for not having a proper evaluation of our chances just yet,” Dorian said. “Trying to avoid being trampled to death by an archdemon has been the slightly higher priority.”

The look Josephine levelled at him was terribly unimpressed, and Dorian knew his initial assessment had been correct—getting her support was going to be no easy task. Sometimes he hated being right. It had been completely different with Leliana and the others; seeing Lavellan again had sparked something in their eyes almost instantly, and that fragile hope had only been amplified by the chance that this horrible future wasn’t inevitable. Josephine showed none of that. If anything, she regarded the two of them like their existence was giving her a headache.

“This is no place for discussion,” she said before they could attempt to plead their case any further. “If the Elder One has moved on, then so should we. Come.” She gestured to her soldiers. “We’ll take these two back to the villa.”

 _Well_ , Dorian thought. How nice of her to give them a choice.

As the Inquisition followed their leader outside, Dorian lingered near Lavellan. “You could have warned me, you know. I had no idea the ambassador would be more frightening than the spymaster.”

Lavellan kept his eyes fixed on Josephine’s back, his expression impossibly guilty. “She wasn’t before.”

* * *

It was a small mercy that the Inquisition had brought horses, sparing everyone from making the trek back to camp on foot. Josephine and Krem rode in front of the pack, keeping an eye out for trouble and following the trail marked by the scouts. Dorian and Lavellan each shared a horse with a different soldier, secretly grateful that they weren’t being called upon to do anything more complicated than sit still and hold on. If Dorian had been a bit less exhausted he might have found the energy to be embarrassed about the state he was in; still wet and filthy from their little dip in Alexius’ river of death, he couldn’t have made for a very enjoyable riding partner. He’d have been tempted to throw himself into the first stream he saw, Inquisition be damned, if there weren’t patches of red lyrium jutting up from nearly every direction along the path.

Dorian heard the interruption to their ride before he saw it—the sound of magic crackled as the mark lit up and flickered across Lavellan’s palm. There, a few dozen yards to the right, green light shimmered between the trees. A Fade rift. How wonderful. The thought of another battle right now made Dorian want to groan in frustration, but he stifled the complaint. Anything they could do to reduce the number of demons on the road had to be worth the effort, didn’t it?

“Alert the Inquisitor,” Lavellan said, sitting up straighter. “There’s a rift ahead.”

“There is no need, Ser,” said the woman Lavellan was riding with. Something was strange about her voice. “She is more than aware of all the rifts in this area.”

“But I can—”

“It would be a pointless endeavor. There will always be more demons.” 

That’s when it clicked. The helmet she was wearing covered the brand, but there could be no mistaking that odd monotone. It sent a chill down Dorian’s spine just as fast as any demon. “You’re… Tranquil.”

“Yes. With the Veil so worn so thin, my connection to the Fade was considered too dangerous.”

“I don’t recognize you from Haven.” Lavellan’s eyes were narrowed, and his tone said he had a theory he didn’t like. “When did you join the Inquisition?”

“After the magister took control of the rebel mages, some of us fled Redcliffe. The Inquisition offered sanctuary.”

“The _Inquisition_ did this to you?” Had they abandoned their morals as well as their senses the minute Lavellan was out of sight? 

“The Inquisitor does not like it any more than you do,” said the woman. “But it was a mercy she was willing to grant to those who begged for it. If you are both mages, it is truly unfortunate that we no longer have the resources to perform the Rite.”

Trying to debate with a Tranquil was a futile endeavor, but if Dorian had been feeling more like his usual self, he might have attempted it anyway. Lavellan, at least, appeared every bit as outraged as he did, and the look they exchanged was one that was becoming increasingly familiar between them: a mix of anger, disbelief, and above all else, the unspoken promise that they wouldn’t let any of this stand.

By the time they reached the Inquisition’s base, night was already beginning to fall. As their horses trotted over the bridge that led to Grand Forest Villa, Dorian had to admit he was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t been sure what kind of camp to expect from the ragtag remnants of the Inquisition, but the villa they’d acquired was actually rather impressive. An imposing stone structure nestled at the foot of the mountains, it seemed to have everything a person could want in a fortress: solid construction, an out of the way location, and enough trebuchets on the towers to be make it appear well-defended. Most importantly, a least in Dorian’s more-than-slightly-biased opinion, the waterfall cascading down the left side of the building actually looked clean. 

As the group began dismounting their horses, Josephine said something to Krem Dorian couldn’t make out before disappearing inside. So much for a tour from the Inquisitor herself, then.

“I remember this place,” Lavellan said, probably more for Dorian’s benefit than anything. “It was the hideout of a group of mercenaries masquerading as bandits. Converting it into an Inquisition outpost is definitely an improvement.”

“Outpost?” Krem shook his head, walking up to Dorian and Lavellan as the scouts led the horses away. “ _This_ is the Inquisition now.”

Oh. That changed Dorian’s impression of the place considerably. The villa might have made a luxurious lair for a mercenary band, but for an organization tasked with saving all of Thedas it was anything but. Structurally speaking, Haven hadn’t been anything special, but the small village had been bursting at the seams, with pilgrims and soldiers alike setting up tents along the outskirts. There were no such campsites here. Whatever was left of the Inquisition, they could apparently fit comfortably into a single building. 

“You two are a mess,” Krem said. “I’ll have one of the scouts show you where you can get cleaned up.”

That sounded like a plan to Dorian, but Lavellan had other priorities. “Wait. You can’t just lead us here with no explanation. I heard Josephine call you Commander. What happened to Cullen? And everyone else?”

Krem sighed but didn’t argue. He had to have expected they’d want answers. “After you disappeared, we were barely more than a thorn in Alexius’ side, much less the Elder One’s. But that didn’t matter—one day he decided he’d had enough. Wanted to put us in our place. He sent a group of his templars to march on Haven. Bastard didn’t even have the decency to show up himself.

“Charter’s agents saw them coming, but it wasn’t like we could up and run. They’d have just followed and crushed us on the road. Commander Cullen stayed behind to lead our troops against them and give them the fight they were after. It bought the rest of us enough time to get some of the villagers to safety.”

That struck Dorian as a particularly horrific way to die. Cold, isolated, and utterly trapped with no way of knowing whether or not their sacrifice would pay off. 

“We couldn’t have lost _everyone_ at Haven.” Lavellan sounded like he was speaking from stubbornness rather than disbelief. “What about the Iron Bull?”

“The Chief’s people called him back to Orlais.”

“He just _left_?”

Dorian scoffed. “Did you honestly expect loyalty from a Qunari?”

Krem glared sharply at both of them. “Qunari orders aren’t something you just ignore. Bull believed in the Inquisition as much as anyone. Even when he couldn’t stay, he left me and the boys behind to keep working.”

“The other Chargers are here?” asked Lavellan.

“Some of them were.” Past tense. No wonder Krem seemed in a hurry to push the subject to less personal losses. “Inquisitor Montilyet was right about how much things have changed since you’ve been gone. Most of the survivors have moved on for one reason or another.”

“Such as?”

“The First Enchanter was in Val Royeaux last I heard, something about tending to a sick Duke. After Haven…well, I can’t say there was much of a reason for her to come back. Blackwall’s been investigating some rumor with the Wardens. He thought they might be able to help us, but it’s been months since we’ve heard from him. Varric’s nearby, working some contacts of his own. I wager you’ll hear from him once the Inquisitor gets word out.”

“And Solas?”

“Solas?” It took a few seconds for recognition to dawn on Krem’s face. “Oh, right. That elven apostate. He took off right after Redcliffe. Sister Leliana wanted to send people to look for him, but we’ve had bigger concerns.”

Lavellan showed no sign of running out of names to rattle off, and Dorian decided he’d heard about as much of this story as he cared to. It felt invasive to stand there listening to tales of dead men and women he would never know, helpless to do anything but watch as Lavellan looked more and more miserable. He took a few wandering steps toward the villa, but he didn’t get far before he found the path blocked.

“Out of the way!” yelled a soldier, gripping tightly to the reins of a horse as he dragged it out the door. The horse fought the man every step, and as it passed, Dorian got a good look at why. Veins were bulging underneath the horse’s skin, so dark they were almost black. Its hair had fallen out in clumps, and its eyes were wild behind its ashen face. Dorian recognized the signs immediately.

_Blight sickness._

“Got another one, Commander!”

Krem clenched his jaw, but kept his reaction carefully in check, like he was wary of showing too much emotion in front of people he considered outsiders. “Take it as far from camp as you can, and make it quick _. Don’t_ get any of its blood on you.”

“Yes, Ser.” The soldier saluted quickly. “This is the fifth one this month we’ve lost to those monsters.”

“Then it’s true,” Dorian said as they watched the man lead the horse out into the forest. “The dragon we saw back at the castle _was_ an archdemon.”

“Not exactly.” Krem crossed his arms. “It’s not a real Blight, not yet. Doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of darkspawn running around, though. Between all the demons they’ve set loose and the lyrium mining, the Venatori have been tearing up their tunnels left and right.”

“Of course they have,” Lavellan said dryly, like he was too exasperated for anything but sarcasm. “Only dealing with demons, mage cults, and rogue templars would have made this much too easy.”

“Perish the thought.” Far it be it from Dorian to not chime in on a moment of levity. “Everyone knows it’s not a _real_ apocalypse until there are ogres about.”

Krem gestured for them to follow. “Come on. You should try and get some rest. There’ll be plenty more time for sad stories in the morning.”

This time Lavellan didn’t protest, and the two of them followed the Commander inside. The ground level of the villa had been converted into temporary stables, but they hardly needed the space. There were maybe a dozen half-starved horses left for an entire fortress of people, and the handful of soldiers milling about didn’t look much better. Their uniforms were more pitiful than what they’d been wearing back at Haven, if such a thing could be believed. One of them had even sloppily carved the Inquisition’s logo into the metal of their breastplate. 

Staying here must have been Josephine's attempt at hiding in plain sight; no one would set up shop in the demon-infested ass end of Ferelden if they had any other choice. A trick like that couldn't possibly last forever, and Dorian was sure Lavellan realized it too—whatever happened next, this was the last stand of the mighty Inquisition.

* * *

After a long bath in the waterfall and a full night of sleep (albeit with only a thin bedroll between him and the cold stone floor), Lavellan felt slightly less like the undead in morning. The Inquisition had even brought him breakfast.

Or… their best shot at it, anyway.

He was familiar with meals like this. The bowl they’d placed outside his door contained a hodgepodge of random ingredients, stretched thin by a watery broth designed to feed as many hungry people as possible. ‘Desperation soup’ he’d called it, once to Hahren Ethrian’s disapproving face. It had been common enough growing up, when the hunts were poor or the clan was forced to pass through lands the humans had left barren. After the day he’d had, even the meager meal felt amazing. 

The rest of the Inquisition’s treatment of him, however, left a great deal to be desired. A guard had escorted Lavellan and Dorian through the villa and left them in the otherwise empty tower, lest they get any ideas about wandering off on their own. It was almost enough to make him feel like a prisoner again. Dorian must have chafed at the idea, because he was nowhere to be found by the time Lavellan woke up. If necessary, Lavellan would risk Josephine’s wrath and hunt him down later. For now he ate his breakfast in silence, watching through the window opening as the Breach twisted across the horizon.

A morning of relative safety also meant that for the first since he’d arrived here, Lavellan had time to think. In the absence of any immediate threats there was nothing stopping him from replaying the events at the castle over and over again in his mind, remembering the looks on his companions’ faces as he left them to their fate. A fate his decisions had personally led them to. For all that he blamed Alexius and his Elder One, Lavellan couldn’t deny that his actions had played a part in creating this future too—he had, after all, been the one to make the call about who would accompany him to Redcliffe.

Cassandra had been an obvious choice, because as far as Lavellan was concerned, Cassandra _was_ the Inquisition. The idea of taking on a task as important as recruiting the rebel mages without her at his side had been unthinkable. The mark on Lavellan’s hand might have inspired people, but it would have meant nothing without Cassandra’s drive to shape that faith into something real. Lavellan was sure that if she’d been around things would have never gotten so bad, but instead of leading as she should have, she'd instead spent the last year rotting away in a dungeon. All because Lavellan had been foolish enough to risk her life by dragging her out into the field.

And then there was Sera. He barely even _knew_ Sera. Tapping her for this mission had been an attempt to remedy that—to see how she performed as a member of the team and maybe find some common ground. In the end all he’d accomplished was getting her killed. Worse than killed, actually. Even if he and Dorian managed to undo this mess, he’d never truly make up for it.

“There you are.” Dorian startled him from his thoughts by appearing in the doorway, looking ridiculously out of place in the outfit the Inquisition had given him. It was similar to what they’d found for Lavellan—simple peasant clothes probably scavenged from an abandoned village. He reminded Lavellan of the cover of one of those awful romance serials humans sometimes read; the kind with some dashing and mysterious foreigner out to seduce young lords and ladies away from the virtuous arms of the Chantry. 

“It appears our dear Lady Inquisitor is ready to meet with us.” Dorian paused, taking in how distracted Lavellan must have seemed. “Something on your mind?”

Lavellan could have answered honestly: mistakes, dead friends, the inescapable consequences of his actions. (Bad fashion.) Instead he sat the empty bowl down beside him and said, “I was thinking of something I read once, actually. Are you familiar with Asellus?”

“Asellus? _Nasario_ Asellus?” If anything, Dorian only seemed more confused when Lavellan answered with a nod. “He didn’t write the sort of books one stumbles over while traipsing through the woods.”

“ ‘Traipsing through the woods,’ ” Lavellan repeated carefully. “Is that what you think my people do?”

Dorian faltered. “I-I only meant it’s not exactly common reading, even in Tevinter.”

Lavellan relaxed his expression just enough to show his willingness to let the matter slide. If he got outraged every time someone said something ignorant about the Dalish, he’d literally never have time for anything else. Dorian, at least, didn’t seem to have malicious intent. “You’d be surprised by what superstitious humans are willing to trade.”

“Apparently so. What’s so fascinating about Rivaini heretics this morning?”

“He theorized about time magic.”

“Theorized that it was _impossible_ , if I recall.” Dorian spoke with the thinly veiled false modesty of someone who could indeed recall in perfect detail. “If the man hadn’t been dead since the Blessed Age, I’d suggest we should gloat.”

“He thought it was impossible because no one can be sure of the underlying principles. The idea is that time operates one of two ways: either as a straight line, where you can only travel back and forth between existing points—”

“—Or every choice branches off in an infinite number of paths. Ah. I see where you’re going with this.”

“We keep saying we can stop all of this from happening, but the truth is that we don’t know that for sure. What if we weren’t sent ahead in time? What if Alexius’ spell opened a doorway to a different timeline altogether?”

“For the sake of our purposes, does the distinction really matter? Either way, _our_ time still needs us to get back to it.”

That was true, but it didn’t put Lavellan at ease the way it should have. 

Undeterred, Dorian continued, “I have some thoughts on how we might do that, in fact. Provided the Inquisition is willing to lend us their aid.”

“That’s a relief.” Lavellan got to his feet, giving Dorian a once-over. “From the way you’re dressed I was afraid you were ready to give up and become a Fereldan farmhand.”

He’d been going for deadpan, but when Dorian’s face twisted up in indignation, he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d be funnier if you didn’t always look so insufferably pleased with yourself?”

“Most people who’ve met me.”

Whatever retort Dorian had in mind was cut off by Josephine walking up behind him, clearing her throat and watching them with the kind of stone-faced judgement that would have done Cassandra proud. “How nice to see you two are keeping yourselves to entertained.”

Lavellan opened his mouth to defend himself, but couldn’t come up with a version of _if I don’t find something to laugh at I’ll literally be done in by the crushing despair of our situation_ that felt very persuasive.

Dorian responded more smoothly, turning to Josephine with a dramatic bow. “Inquisitor Montilyet.”

Barely acknowledging either reaction, she beckoned for them to follow her out of the room. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

They did as she commanded, walking behind as Josephine guided them through the halls at a steady clip. It didn’t take long to notice she’d chosen an unconventional route, avoiding the staircase in favor of a more secluded ladder that led to the top floor.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Dorian said once they’d all climbed up, “I’d think you were trying to keep the Herald out of sight.”

“I absolutely am.”

“You don’t think the people have a right to know he’s returned?”

Josephine slowed down long enough to toss a glance from over her shoulder. “And what would you have me tell them?”

“The truth?” Dorian asked, like it was obvious. 

“The truth is that you intend on finding a way to fix Alexius’ amulet, is it not?”

Lavellan hesitated. Somehow, he felt like answering that was walking into a trap. “It’s the best thing we can do to help.”

“I’m sure it won’t come as a shock to hear the Inquisition doesn’t have the resources to repair such an artifact.” That much was obvious. On the run and struggling to stay clothed and fed, these people wouldn’t have had much use for esoteric tools. “Which means your stay here will be temporary. What should I say to them? That their hero has returned for an afternoon? That he intends to disappear on them a second time?”

Dorian was incensed. “Going back in time to protect them is a far cry from up and abandoning them!”

“To the people here, that difference is not as great as you believe.” Josephine stopped at the end of the hall, but made no move to open the door. She took a steadying breath. “I realize what a shock this situation is for you both, but you must understand our position as well. The bulk of the Elder One’s forces may have moved northward, but it would only take one mistake for him to discover us. If the people here thought there was _anything_ they could do to help you, they wouldn’t hesitate.”

Unbidden, the image of his friends back at the castle flashed through Lavellan’s mind with haunting clarity. The last thing he needed was more people following him to their deaths.

“I understand,” Lavellan said, even though Dorian still seemed poised to argue. “But I doubt you invited us all the way here just to kick us out.”

“No,” Josephine agreed, opening the door to what must have been the new war room. A large map was draped over a table in the center; a relic of the Orlesian occupation, most likely, since Lavellan didn’t recognize some of the location names. 

Krem was standing beside it, along with a familiar looking elven woman. She raised a hand to her chest in salute as Lavellan and Dorian entered. “It’s good to see you still live, My Lord. I don’t believe we were properly introduced in Haven. I’m Charter. I’ve taken over Sister Leliana’s duties for the Inquisition.”

Lavellan returned the gesture, noting that there was no direct replacement for Josephine. He supposed there wasn’t much need for diplomacy in times like these.

Josephine walked to stand at the head of the table. “As I was saying, I believe it might still be possible for us to help each other.”

“What we need isn’t terribly complicated,” Dorian said. “Even your southern Circles must keep supplies for basic enchantments.”

“They might’ve,” said Krem. “But what’s left of Kinloch Hold is sitting at the bottom of the lake.”

Charter nodded in confirmation. “The rebel mages who joined the Venatori didn’t think too kindly of their former home.”

Lavellan couldn’t _entirely_ blame the mages for that one, but he knew to keep the comment to himself. It certainly didn’t do him any favors for the closest option to be so thoroughly off the table. Rural Ferelden wasn’t exactly a hub of magical activity.

“Even if they hadn’t destroyed the tower, the Venatori would have long since taken anything useful for themselves,” Josephine said. “We’ve heard reports of the Elder One ransacking ruins all across Thedas.”

“We aren’t sure what he’s after, exactly.” Krem’s eyes fell to the map as if he were tracing some unseen path. “But he’s proven himself desperate for any magical knowledge.”

Josephine stared at Lavellan from across the table. “If you two are serious about fixing the amulet, then it’s most likely you’ll have to journey beyond the Hinterlands.”

“…Which also means beyond the reach of the Inquisition,” Lavellan finished for her.

“You see my predicament.” Josephine tipped her head in acknowledgment. “As much as we would like to support you, any resources given to you are taken directly from our people.”

Lavellan realized then that to the Inquisition, it must look like he and Dorian were on a suicide mission. Two mages against the world, with nothing but a broken trinket and a useless mark to guide them.

“The Inquisition is prepared to offer you refuge,” Josephine said, barely getting the words out over the sound of Dorian's objections. “ _Or_ perhaps we can work out an exchange.”

“I told you that Varric’s still in Ferelden, right?” Krem asked. “He’s been waiting to hear from us, but communication is difficult.”

“We don’t have ravens to spare outside of emergencies.” Charter briefly glanced to the mostly empty bird cages that lined the other side of the room. “And we need every capable soldier on hand to guard the fortress.”

Josephine stepped away long enough to grab an envelope from a stack of missives piled up on the counter. It was rather official looking, complete with the Inquisition’s seal. “If you plan on setting out anyway, perhaps you could find him.”

“You must be joking.” Dorian staggered like the audacity of the request had physically knocked him back. “The Herald of Andraste returns from the dead and you want him to deliver letters?”

“He’s no such thing!” Josephine cried with a force that seemed to surprise even her.

Lavellan should have been thrilled to hear someone admit the truth about that ridiculous title, but it felt more like a slap to the face. Behind the anger, Josephine sounded so _disappointed_. This was never what he wanted; acknowledgment for his own beliefs shouldn’t have to come at the expense of someone else’s.

“I’m sorry, Master Lavellan. It isn’t your fault.” Josephine looked away. “You told us as much from the beginning, did you not? We just wanted so badly to believe… To think the Maker had returned to us. But we are alone. We have _always_ been alone.”

“Andraste or not,” Dorian cut in, “he’s the only one who can seal the Breach.”

“It’s a great deal more than a _Breach_ now,” Charter said.

“This mission isn’t entirely for our benefit.” Josephine tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking more composed. “You’ll need lyrium for the amulet, won’t you? Varric and his contacts have been liberating the mines enslaved by the Venatori.”

“They’ve enslaved Orzammar’s miners?” Dorian made it sound like something unthinkable. “The Imperium has been allied with the dwarves since the time of the first Archon!”

Krem cocked an eyebrow, almost amused. “You really think the Venatori care about honoring alliances?”

“I think the Magisterium would step in. Riling up the south is one thing, but tolerating a threat to their own power? Jeopardizing their lyrium supply?”

“Some of them did," Krem replied. "Cleaning house was the first order of business. They’ve been sending shipments of red lyrium up north, supercharging their slaves. The Tevinter resistance didn’t stand a chance against that.”

The implication for what that meant for the people Dorian cared about hung in the air long after he went quiet. Lavellan could sympathize. If Orlais and Tevinter had both descended into war, then it was only natural to assume that Nevarra and the Marches had been forced to get involved as well. He could picture the chaos as the disparate nations struggled to unite in the midst of fallen leaders, constantly shifting alliances, and betrayal. And somewhere, in the middle of it all, was Clan Lavellan.

“Even if we had lyrium of our own,” Charter said, carefully guiding the group back on track, “there’s no one in the Inquisition capable of smithing with it. There’s a good chance Varric could provide you with both.”

“And where can we find Varric?” Lavellan asked.

Josephine tapped a spot on the map with her finger. “You remember Valammar?”

“Varric’s staying in dwarven ruins willingly?”

“ _Willingly_ might be a stretch. But Valammar has something valuable—an entrance to the Deep Roads.”

“No one’s seen this many darkspawn on the surface since the time of the last Blight,” Charter said. “Traveling underground is the safest way to get through Ferelden.”

As if this wasn’t dangerous enough already, Lavellan thought. He looked over to Dorian, who seemed to be stewing in a frustrated silence. Lavellan could have taken him aside for a discussion, but honestly, there was little point in it. They couldn’t stay here and any lead Varric could provide them with had to be better than wandering the countryside on their own.

“All right, Inquisitor,” Lavellan said, holding out a hand for the letter. “We’ll take your message to Varric.”

* * *

Josephine was more permissive about letting Lavellan and Dorian roam the fortress after their meeting, apparently satisfied that they had a proper grasp of the stakes. Lavellan had taken to wearing gloves and strategically covering his left hand to hide the mark, but it turned out he needn’t have bothered. Whatever the scouts had been told was apparently enough to stop any rumors in their tracks, and the staff he was carrying prompted most in the Inquisition to immediately avert their eyes in fear. Having mages nearby was practically inviting demons in, they seemed to think, and it was clear they’d all breathe a lot easier once their two newest additions had moved on.

Lavellan eventually found Dorian outside, filling their waterskins in the stream. Josephine hadn’t been able to supply them with much, but the small packs she’d given them certainly beat setting out empty-handed. She’d even gone as far as to offer them one of her horses, but Lavellan didn’t have the heart to take something so essential.

“I spoke with the apothecary. No healing potions to spare, but—” Lavellan opened his bag, revealing several bottles of magebane.

“So, the mages who aren’t dead or Tranquil are constantly drugging themselves into a stupor?”

“ _Were_. They made it clear they didn’t need their supply anymore.”

“And yet they’re shocked so many ran off to join the Venatori.”

Lavellan sighed, taking a seat on an oversized rock and watching the villa’s reflection waver in the water. “Do you think leaving is really the right thing to do?”

“Do _you_ think the Inquisitor is giving us a choice?”

That was a fair point. Josephine seemed worried that Lavellan would undermine her authority just by being there. 

“Our real concern should be whether or not Varric will actually be any more helpful than the Inquisition,” Dorian went on.

“A day ago I wouldn’t have questioned that.” If this place could do such a number on Josephine, though, Lavellan couldn’t rely on Varric to have fared any better. “But now I’m not sure about anything. If he _does_ have lyrium, will that even be enough to get us home?”

“The amulet itself looks undamaged,” Dorian said. “Theoretically enough lyrium _could_ repower it. It’s not an especially elegant solution, mind you—rather like blasting a hole in the wall instead of opening the door.”

“But,” Lavellan picked up, “we only need it to work once.”

“Exactly.” Dorian smiled in that pleased way he usually did when he didn’t have to overexplain something. “Miracles are supposed to be part of your whole Herald business, yes?”

Lavellan nearly grimaced. “I think we’ve more than established that I’m not.”

“Why? Because the Inquisitor lost faith?” Dorian asked. “Thedas fell apart the minute you were gone. Do you truly think that’s just a coincidence?”

“What does that make you, then?”

“Me?”

“Let’s say I _am_ the only one who can stop the Elder One. I still don’t know anything about time magic. Doesn’t that mean you’re just as important?”

“That’s—” Dorian made a face like he’d just bitten into something sour. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

“You say that now, but wait until we get back. All it takes is someone hallucinating a woman in the portal behind you. Then it’ll be _Heralds_ of Andraste.”

Dorian stared back at him, for once stunned into silence. 

“And _that_ ,” Lavellan said with a grin, hoisting his pack over his shoulder as he stood to leave, “is precisely what that ‘Maker’s chosen’ nonsense sounds like.”

“All right, you’ve made your point.” Dorian was quick to follow, although he still sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “So, it’s… Lavellan, then?”

“I didn’t realize we were being so formal, _Lord Pavus_.”

Despite the relatively short amount of time Lavellan had spent in Dorian’s presence, he already recognized how telling it was to receive hesitation as a response rather than a comeback. “…You don’t actually know my name, do you?”

“It’s hardly my fault that you’reabysmal at introductions,” Dorian answered easily. “Considering the circumstances, however, I suppose I can forgive your lack of etiquette just this once.”

“How generous,” Lavellan said with a laugh. Getting the Inquisition to call him anything other than Andraste’s Herald had been such a lost cause he’d just about given up on it by the time Dorian came along. If they were going to work so closely together now, though, he needed to be addressed like a real person. “It occurs to me I don’t actually know much about you either. Perhaps we can start over?”

After all, they had a long road ahead.


End file.
